


Letters for His Majesty

by motleystitches (furius)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Declarations Of Love, Erik Being Cocky, F/M, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Identity Issues, Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Mpreg, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/motleystitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Charles the Gentle, King of Westchester, was nineteen years old, he killed a man named Shaw and rescued a boy he gave to the MacTaggerts’ to raise. Twenty years later, he has almost forgotten the incident. With a wife he loves as a sister, no heir, and a war going badly, Charles falls quickly and inappropriately in love with the knight Erik Lehnsherr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everything was more disordered than he had been led to believe: pampered officers who didn’t recognize their sergeants, sergeants who did as they liked and the veterans bullying the younger recruits, the entire camp was a disaster. And the weather- Charles wiped his brow with a handkerchief.  It was nearly October and the temperature was still high enough that an egg could be cooked on a rock left on the ground. Desertion was becoming a problem. Soldiers fresh off the farms were becoming worried about getting back in time for the harvest. If the winter rains do not begin soon, the campaign would likely push into November.

The MacTaggerts had sent word that they would be sending three regiments. Those, combined with the soldiers Summer would bring with him, all trained, should relieve the situation. Charles hated war. Westchester had been at war very since he could remember. His first campaign, at nineteen, had been very much like this one. They had won at the end, however. A Pyrrhic victory; Kurt Marko’s men were loyal even after his death and  Charles’ father had died, not even from battle, but by a poisoned cup of wine offered by an assassin disguised as one of his own soldiers.

Twenty years later, Charles was waging war with Marko’s son. The manner of Charles’s father’s death still caused concern for poison from his councilors, from Raven, which now obliged him to the western front not as the King of Westchester coming to fight with his men, but as his own emissary.

“Are you going to take that or are you just idling?” The voice, light and mocking, distracted him from his thoughts.

The sword girt at the speaker’s side proclaimed him a knight, though he had shed his armor and robe. His shirt was streaked with dust, so was his face, highlighting the brightness of his eyes, sea-colored and as variable, the shades shifting as he moved. Charles remembered spending one summer by the sea before he was called to war. He killed his first man that summer, in the public square no less, an incident that still made him embarrassed. A just ruler ruled by law, not by inclination, a distinction that was more blurry when he was young.

Charles stood aside to let the man take the bucket from the well beside the stables. There was very little shade beneath the small structure, but Charles was unwilling to yield the place entirely. Noon was terrible in Genosha, even the animals stayed out of the sun.

“Shouldn’t you get someone to do that?”

“It means waiting,” said the knight, pulling the chain, “and I rather not when I can do it myself, an idea I’m growing to realize not everyone shares in this place, milord.” The ‘milord’ at the end had a lot less respect than Charles was used to, but he reminded himself that he was not the king here.

 “You came with the MacTaggerts,” They were due to arrive the evening; Charles did not believe they would ride more quickly, but Moira and Sean had surprised him before.

The knight had dipped a piece of cloth into the bucket and was wiping his face. Beneath the dirt, his skin was very fair. He was not a young man, but still handsome, with a broad brow, high-cheekbones, and a firm jaw. The strong bones of his face were a pleasing contrast to his eyes, which seemed gentle, the lashes curled like a girl’s. His mouth was thin but gracefully shaped. It was a pleasant visage, and almost familiar.

“They’re a few hours behind. I sent myself ahead. I tried to present myself to General Frost, but she was busy and I was recommended to see Lord Francis, the King’s Emissary, after I make myself presentable, so here I am. Then I’m going to find Lord Francis, whoever he may be, some silk clad creature eating grapes.”

He stripped, revealing a long lean torso that disappeared as he took a fresh shirt out of the saddlebag by his feet and dressed again.

“I am Lord Francis,” Charles said, amused. “And I wouldn’t have minded that you come to me in any way you prefer.”

The knight narrowed his eyes as he took in Charles: his plain officer’s garb, his boots, dirty from reviewing the camp since the morning, and his sword and scabbard, unadorned except for a lord’s crest. He didn’t apologise, but started the more necessary conversation of positioning MacTaggert’s reinforcements.

“How many men will be coming?”

“Two and half regiments.” It was less than Charles had asked for; he didn’t think it would be enough.

“We can end the campaign with just two under my command,” Erik said.

“You are very certain of yourself,” said Charles.

“I’m very certain of my men,” answered Erik, grinning brightly. He had an astonishing smile, the teeth even and regular, but still reminiscent of some wild thing. “I’ve either trained with them or trained them myself.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “I will take you to the General Frost, I’m certain she would welcome your reassurance.”

Janos, Frost’s aide, almost stopped them until he saw Charles .When then entered the tent, Frost was poring over the map with Logan, the field marshall, at her side. They had both arrived with Charles to relieve the previous general, loyal for more than two generations of Xaviers, but grown addled with age.

 “This is Sir Erik,” Charles said, “he’ll be commanding MacTaggert’s two and half regiments that are due to arrive tonight.”

“Two and half-“ Frost looked like she was going to begin one of her tantrums, never revealed to her soldiers but terror to her officers.  She had been angry the moment she saw the state of the camp and had only grew angrier in the last fortnight. 

“Another half,” Erik inserted smoothly, “currently billeted with Summer’s soldiers, guarding the supply trains.”

Charles frowned at this piece of information. However, he kept his displeasure hidden as they reviewed the position of the troops.

When the discussion was done, it was near evening. Ignoring Frost’s eyes on his back, Charles followed Erik and caught up with him just as about he was about to leave to meet with his soldiers.

“You neglected to tell me about the number guarding Summers’.”

“You’re the King’s emissary, Lord Francis” replied Erik, amiable enough. “I did not think you’ve command of all military matters. No deception was intended. I would never disobey the king.”

“Though you think you can end this blasted campaign with just two more regiments.”

“The king,” said Erik, fervently, “is not to be disobeyed. He has ruled justly and wisely for the twenty years, thinking always for his people, whom he fought for with his own body. I would never question his decisions. I have bled for him and would die for him. My life belongs to him.”

Charles, a little stunned, said nothing, but the silence drew Erik’s eyes to him. “Nonetheless,” Erik said, uncharacteristically hesitant, “I do not mean to displease you. It was only that I did not know you. You must know that you’re not a usual courtier.”

 “Your loyalty is commendable, I am- I will tell him,” Charles said. “His Majesty would be gratified.” Then, impulsively, he asked, “Would you like to know me better, then, Sir Erik?”

It was near sunset; the sunlight already a deep gold, but Charles saw Erik’s blush. Charles let the invitation flow into his smile. “Join me for dinner, after your duties.”

Erik nodded, sharply, once, and mounted and rode off. Charles watched him until he was no longer visible before returning to his own tent.

“You old fool,” he thought to himself, “giddy as a boy.” Yet he was restless. Erik was handsome, true, what Charles knew of his body now flashed across his mind intermittently. In his thoughts, he could imagine the pleasure it offered. But there was something passionate Erik’s words of loyalty to the king, to Charles, that stirred him more than the thoughts of that trim waist, those long legs. Charles was almost tempted to reveal himself, but thinking of a man capable of such passion was enough to warm him in the hours before Erik’s presence returned to him.

He sorted through his letters. The letters in cipher from Raven at the capital reported nothing suspicious, just a general unease at his supposed illness. There were prayer vigils at his honour, particularly from the foundling schools and the court ladies; some rumors of his journey to seek a cure for Raven’s barrenness. Charles snorted at the last. He had never shared Raven’s bed; they had grown up as siblings, the marriage was a matter of political necessity between Westchester and Darkholme. Now Charles was a year away from forty, outliving his own father, and barely young enough to oversee an heir to grow to manhood before age weakened him.

Nonetheless, Charles remembered the letters written in a childish hand that came to his post many years ago; he had dismissed them when he had been younger and the future seemed like an everlasting adventure, but twenty years after—wars and countless death in between-- he almost missed them. He couldn’t even remember the boy’s name.

But that was all in the past. Charles could smell the cooking fires. His squire was setting the table, laying out the trenchers. He had simple fare when afield, but even an emissary was allowed certain indulgences. From a chest under his bed, he drew out a bottle of wine from one of the royal vineyards, gracefully complex and full-bodied, but light enough not to intoxicate.

He almost called for a change of clothes, then laughed at himself at his own vanity. It had been years since he cared for fashion in love. Clothes were very much not on the agenda tonight.

-=-=-=-=


	2. Chapter 2

Charles woke up early in the mornings, the tent still shadowed by the last of twilight. Erik was warm beside him, still asleep, breathing slow and even. Charles laid a kiss on a bare white shoulder where it was free from scars.

Erik had shown up for dinner in a fresh tunic, his hair still damp and curling sweetly behind his ears. They discussed first the improvement to be made to the state of of the camp, which they agreed was in disarray, then shared stories of the campaigns they had fought and the men they knew in common. Erik was well-read for a knight and had a merciless dry wit. After inquiring into his past, Charles learned that Erik had grown up around Caspartina, a seaport town in MacTaggert’s fiefdom and used to gaze on the lookout for his parents’ ships, especially after his father died and his mother captained them alone. Charles liked the gentleness of Erik’s expression, but not the sadness that the recollection brought. He turned the conversation to general topics and discovered that Erik and he shared a love of chess.

The game over the wine—which Erik praised—found Charles a new partner for the game above the board and quite quickly, on the bed beside it. Erik had been coy, his long fingers caressing the pieces while Charles bit at his own lips and watched, tantalized by th display and the pale skin at Erik’s throat. He almost doubted himself until he saw how Erik looked up from under his lashes, the corner of his mouth curled in a smile.

They kissed then, stripping quickly hungry for skin and contact, kissing each other’s bodies, lingering over the scars before Charles spent himself between Erik’s thighs. The memory aroused him; Charles pressed forward, his groin pressing against the lovely curve of Erik’s arse. Charles buried his face in the mattress and groaned a little. If only they did not need to ride today-  Shaking himself from the thought, even if not the desire, he slipped out of the bed, washed with tepid water, and went to get them breakfast.

When he returned, Erik was pulling on his breeches, bare-chested. King Charles was clean-shaven, Lord Francis had chosen not to be so scrupulous for the campaign, the evidence now in the red on Erik’s skin. “Good morning,”

“I’m afraid I’ve no fresh grapes to offer you,” said Charles, pointing at the bowls of thick porridge, the boiled eggs, and the raisins, “though I promise you could have them if we were back in my castle.”

“You make so many promises,” Erik said, shaking his head, standing up to find his boots, scattered in two different places. He stretched, languid, the scars on his pale body, new and old, Charles had mapped with his mouth and hands recently on display in the lights of the weak dawn.

There were now also dark spots on Erik’s hips, at his throat. Erik bruised almost as easily as Charles did. There were answering twinges in his own body.

He went with Erik to the stables where Erik saddled a magnificent sorrel with flaxen mane he called Magneto. Professor, Charles’ black destrier, expressed curiosity where Magneto’s mane had been tightly braided.

“The heat,” Erik explained, patting its neck affectionately. “Also, otherwise he’s very vain and tosses his head too much. My squire,  Mortimer,  insists it’s for my own safety; he read a manual by Dr. McCoy.”

The camp was barely stirring, but still better than a fortnight ago when Charles arrived. At least he was no longer seeing weapons stacked haphazardly and campfires set too close to another.

It was clear when they approached MacTaggert’s regiment. The sentries were awake and courteous, the tents pitched in orderly lines. Erik introduced his lieutenant, the fearsome Azazel. Charles knew him by reputation only. The man was redder and more evil-looking in real-life.

 “Lord Francis of Darkholme, the King’s Emissary.”

“You are a relative of her majesty, then,” Azazel said, his voice surprisingly dulcet. “Is Lady Irene still at court?’

Lady Irene, in fact, was, though Charles thought the question was strange before Azazel proceeded to express admiration for her poetry, at length.

Erik coughed beside him, interrupting the conversation; Azazel excused himself as Erik led Charles to tour the encampment. It looked as if ready for an inspection yet the men evidently took pride in their gear and their station and Erik’s curt approval seemed to be enough praise.

Charles had seen good soldiers, great tacticians—Hank McCoy came to mind—during his reign but recognized that Erik had a rarer quality that could not only command men, but make them love him. It was perhaps that same magnetism that had drawn Charles towards him. Charles was considered to possess it- a virtue in a king, yet it was was a dangerous quality for a knight in charge of a substantial number of men. MacTaggerts must have trusted Erik very well indeed.

Charles was just old enough to remember Angel Salvadore’s rebellion, quickly quashed. She, too, had been beloved by her soldiers, but her ambitions had led herself and them to their deaths.

Charles looked beside him where Erik was beautiful and as austere as a war-god. Charles remembered Erik’s devotion to his majesty, to himself, and berated himself for suspecting the worst of the man when he had brought nothing but delight to this weary campaign. In fact, Charles had not felt so at ease since he had been merely a prince.

He reached across to touch Erik on the arm lightly, to reassure himself that Erik was real. Erik turned around to look at him questioningly.

“A race?” Charles proposed, gesturing at the treeline. He felt nervous, tension building inside him. The imminent parting from Erik was causing him more ache than he expected. Who know what the day may bring. The chances of war were always uncertain.

Erik nodded and on three, they set off, the Professor winning by a hair, quite literally.

“If you were back at my castle,” Charles said afterwards, still breathless, “you would not be able to ride.”

 “I’ve no castle, Lord Francis, but I would reassure you the same once this war is over.”

Charles laughed, happier with the idea than he expected. He cast a lascivious glance at Erik’s seat. There was great promise in those narrow hips, that straight back. The war would not be over for a long time, but he was already thinking of inviting Erik to the capital at the end of this campaign, or perhaps during his furlough. He realized he did not wish to leave with uncertainty.

“Come with me to the capital at your first leave,” he said, as they walked their horses back to camp. I will present you at the high court.” It was an honour granted only to a few, for usually only propertied nobles of a certain rank sat there.

“To His Majesty Charles himself?”  Erik didn’t believe him.

“I am his emissary,” said Charles, “I am his person’s proxy. I carry his authority and in this camp, I am his person. And I’m certain His Majesty would kiss you.”

To his surprise and delight, Erik ducked his head and blushed as Charles leaned over and did so before he dismounted, but they were close enough that those far-sighted could see them.

“Is that a yes?” Charles asked. “To both questions.”

Erik, exasperated, assented before disappearing with his squire.

It was an hour later when Charles finished his rounds and saw Logan petting a messenger pigeon while scowling at an unmoved Scott.

“He wouldn’t tell me where you are,” said Logan. “Word from Darwin, Lord Francis, Stryker is leading a force down the river to arrive in three days, two if the weather holds as they will have a dozen cannons with them.”  

The west had been so difficult to hold because of its proximity to the territories of Cain, self-styled Duke of Cyttorak, Kurt Marko’s bastard before his marriage to Charles’ mother with designs on the throne of Westchester.  Surrounded by mountains and sheer cliff-face, Savageland, rich in resources, was impossible to penetrate by any large army. For years, they have been raiding the nearby holdings of the peoples loyal Westchester before retreating back to their mountain keeps while sending spies to the court. The death of Charles’ father was doubtless the result of bribery at their command.

“What are the Frost’s orders?”  

“We are to intercept the party and draw them out to open battle before they reach bridge.” He showed Charles the orders.

“And where am I in this scenario?”

“Away from the battle, milord,” Logan said, “safe.”

“Ridiculous,” Charles said and ordered his amour to be readied. “I fight in the vanguard.”

“Milord is the king’s emissary.” Even though they were alone, Logan lowered his voice and hissed, “not the king himself. Furthermore, MacTaggert’s battalions are at the vanguard, Sir Erik at their command. ”

And Charles realized Frost was using them to delay Stryker’s advances. Logan must’ve caught the change in his expression.  “You can’t send these _children_ under the banner, milord. They would be cut down like so much straw. Erik’s men are the best we have before Summer’s soldiers arrive. If they are as good as Erik say they are, then they can hold on until then.”

Erik had said he could seize a victory with only two regiments, but Charles was certain he didn’t meant open field, as part of someone else’s delaying technique. Unfortunately Logan was right, most of this army was in no shape to hold off a force led by Stryker for any length of time.

“Sir Erik agreed.”

Of course. He must’ve received word of this the moment Charles had left and sent his reply almost immediately.

Neither Cain nor his second-in-command, Stryker, had fought in open-field for years, but the tips of the arrows of Marko’s arrows were poisoned.

Charles Francis Xavier, called Charles the Gentle, had been sending out men and women to die, some little more than adolescents, ever since his succession. He had lost most of his lovers to war. He didn’t even have bastards. At first, because he feared what bastardy could do to confuse succession, then later, because all his partners had been male, all required to ride at a moment’s notice. He had always finished outside their bodies. He wished now he had done otherwise, generated some life to counterbalance all these deaths.

And now he could lose Erik, too. And strangely, he wondered what became of the boy he had saved. It had been in Caspartina, he now remembered, the village of Erik’s childhood. A man, Shaw or Schmidt, had been whipping a boy from atop his horse. Everyone else had averted their eyes. Charles, passing through alone, asked Shaw to stop, when Shaw instead lifted a crossbow to aim at the boy, Charles, startled, had killed Shaw on the spot. He later realized Shaw had been the boy’s master. The boy, eleven years old and an orphan, he had given to Moira MacTaggert as a page on his own income and suffered the jibes of his fellows for being precocious eight year old. That was twenty year ago, Charles wondered if the boy, now a man grown, would be marching with Erik. If he was even alive.

He was a king at wartime; his responsibility was to bear the guilt of lost parents, lost children, lost lovers. 

That evening, he went to Erik, bringing dishes and food from his own stores to share with the battalion. He spent the evening alone with Erik and the night in Erik’s narrow bed. They went to each other with the passion of men who knew that the future would be uncertain.

They were to march tomorrow. Charles had spent the day drilling his lackluster troops. By evening, he thought to refrain from going to Erik, but his feet led here anyways where he found Erik equally sleepless and happy to see him. Now, looking at Erik sprawled asleep next to him, the remnants of their coupling still drying between his thighs, his heart sank. He slipped out at first light and woke up Frost.

By his own rules, he could not countermand the orders of a general in the field unless necessary—an act of power he usually spared from using-- but he could amend them.

-=-=


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m not to be your catamite, Lord Francis,” Erik bit out. Charles had feared that he would leave at first light with his men. He had almost assigned guards.

 “Even if you think that is the intent of the order, you’ll be the king’s catamite,” Charles said, calmly. The order for Erik to remain was signed with Charles’ seal, countersigned with Frost’s. “I am only the king’s emissary.”

“You are not the king,” said Erik. “He would not, he would never put his own personal good above another. I know it.”

Charles had faced a ranting Frost. He didn’t flinch. “The king will see the wisdom of keeping you alive. You are tactician who knows the reality of warfare. We cannot afford to spend you so recklessly. You are staying here. You will not disobey the king or his emissary.”

“Then I will be nowhere where you will be.” Erik said. He began to unbuckle his swordbelt, laid it on the chair before starting to unlace his trousers . Surely he could not be thinking- but then Erik braced himself on his elbows and bent over the table, the rings of his mail crashing against the wood in a clatter of obscene noise.

“What are you doing?”

Erik glanced back at him coldly. “Fuck me now, get it out of your system. There’s oil in the medicine box. It’ll be more uncomfortable if you take me dry, but I’ve fought through worse injuries.”

“If you die,” Charles said, standing up, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice, “I shall regret not having tried to force you to stay.” He approached, slipped his hand down one trembling hip, and drew up Erik’s trousers and whispered, “I love you, Erik.“

“I will not die,” Erik said, full of conviction, it almost sounded like a promise he could keep. He turned around; the fury in his face eased a little. “Do not insult me. Let me fill my oath as a knight and fight with my men, fight for His Majesty,”  he knelt by Charles’ feet and looked up, “for you.”

For a moment, Charles thought his identity had been discovered, but realized that Erik had pressed a ring in his hand, a token or a favour. “If I don’t come back, it is only war, it is only fate. You will find another. You always have.”

“I will not,” answered Charles, lost; he had never stopped any of them before even when he was young and shameless enough to plead, how could he stop Erik now. He had been a fool to try. “But go.”

He wrote Erik’s passport, played his squire, and watched him gallop Magneto to be with his men, who was ahead by only an hour, on foot.

“Well,” Charles said to the Professor, which was chewing thoughtfully on the grass,  “we always knew this would be a lonely business.”

-=-=

Scott was observing him with a studious expression on his face. Irritated, Charles told him to send Cassidy a bird inquiring about his long-ago ward and then go pray for rain.

He himself went to Frost. “Summers is still not here yet,” she told him without asking, looking tired. “I received word that Sir Erik has reinserted himself into command.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known him three days,” Frost continued, the edge of sarcasm strong enough to cut. “If I do not know who you are, I would keep you under guard fearing treason. He’s one of the most able commanders we have.”

“Exactly the reason you agreed we should keep him behind.”

“It was your suggestion, however, in the middle of the night, like an ambush. Janos’s arm required five stitches, by the way.” Upon reflection, everything had been very ill-conceived, and even more badly executed. “I am not blind. He is very lovely man. Charming, too, perhaps, particularly at nights.”

“I am married,” Charles said stiffly.

“A marriage for the capital, like my poor brother said,” agreed Frost, then pointed at the valley from which Marco’s men would emerge. After several disastrous forays before Charles’ time, the problem had always been that without knowledge of the mountains, the enemies at higher ground and concealed by the forests could come out anywhere, usually with their deadly missiles and arrows; however, since Westchester held the stone bridge, Marko had never ventured across to the riverbank. Erik’s vanguard would be responsible for feinting an attack before retreating.

They’re giving up the bridge in the hope that it would draw out enough of Marko’s men out while Summer’s reinforcements and the rest of Frost’s troops intercept the force led by Stryker traveling downriver with the cannons, one part following their trail into the mountains of Savageland, the other to hem in the forces attempting crossing the river. If it rained, Stryker would be slowed and easier to track. Despite Savageland’s goldmines, men could not eat metal to survive. With Westchester pressing so close this year, they must be desperate enough to pursue any perceived retreat.

It was an easy enough strategy on paper, but complicated to carry out, requiring soldiers who could follow orders while adapting. “Feinting” a retreat without actually doing so had the potential of going disastrously wrong. While the eyes of their peers and a moment’s courage could keep them advancing, understandably, no soldier really wanted to give up their life faraway from home; Charles had seen false cavalry retreats becoming disastrously real. It required not only a good commander whom his men trusted unthinkingly, but at the same time trained not to falter even when the commander had the misfortune to fall. Accidents happened frequently in wars.

Charles hoped that he had not sent Erik to his death.

He rode up to the hill where he and Erik had raced to look at the lands below. All of it belonged to him in name, but surely Charles was the one owned. He was honest enough to know that his own ambitions brought him to this point. He had determined the course of his own kingship before he realized the cost. After his father’s death, he had strove to prove to the court, to everyone including himself, that he was strong despite loss, wise despite his youth, desiring perfection above all else.

He married Raven the third year of his reign. Argued with her for days to convince her that it was for the greater good of the kingdom to have a queen-regent instead of a council of squabbling ministers when he was away at war. The wedding had went exactly as planned, the aftermath more excruciating than he had imagined until Raven found Irene and her smile became genuine.

Erik’s accusation hurt. Erik was right; Frost was right; Lord Francis ordered him to stay behind and keep him out of harm’s way precisely because of the pleasure his body offered as a lover, as if he were a catamite. But it was thinking of that body, some of the scarring so deep, reminders of all the occasions when Erik’s narrow escape from death, were also reminders of how closely he came to having never known Erik at all. And yet, Charles the Gentle sent him out again, because he wanted more than Erik’s body, but to deserve Erik’s love and loyalty. All that time, Charles was still proving, even if to himself, that he was a king worthy to his subjects.

From the crest of the hill, he could see Cassidy’s messengers began to dot the skies. Moira used to say that Sean trained his pigeons with his hawks and they learned to dodge predators as well recognizing arrows. From the distance, Charles could see the colored glass on the banner-poles, signaling the movements of the infantry. His horse’s ears were twitching, doubtless hearing the din of battle.

Charles’ first experience of battle had been watching. He grew up to realize it had been more terrible than participating. He felt paralyzed, helpless, like a grass or a leaf, insubstantial in the total mass of the world. He could be a run’s away from the battle and still feel like a hundred miles behind.

Sighing, he rode down the hill again, thinking he would go pray with Scott. Though the weather had cooled, the sky was still too blue, the clouds whiter than bone.  

-=-=

When the first numbers of the wounded began to arrive, Charles took off his gloves and scribbled a note to Raven. There had been no reply from MacTaggerts from Cassidy Castle yet. The question now haunted him. Surely he should at least know the name of the boy whom he had saved and now may be a man dying for him. There was a selfish part of him that wished, hopelessly, that he had not become a soldier, but was even now in a homestead or even a shop far away from the borders of the kingdom, safe and happy with a family and children. He had a vague impression of intelligence, perhaps the boy had become a scholar. Charles stared blankly as the hour was called out. If he had any, the children could be old enough for school by now.  

By noon, the sky was overcast. Almost the entire camp had moved out. Even Logan was gone. Charles was on the road accompanying the last of the men to the rendezvous point before he heard a sudden cheer. Summers’ men was only four miles awau/  They would come in time.

The pieces were now all in place, now there was only the play. Breathing a sigh of relief, Charles returned with a small number of men to the almost deserted camp. He was heading to join the rest of the command before he saw Scott hurtling towards him. It was a short ride, he had neglected to take the boy or even told him where he was. Feeling apologetic, he took the message Scott gave him and told him that they would not be riding out again today, but that he could run messenger for Logan and his brother who would be coming with fresh soldiers if he wanted to be closer to battle. Charles remembered how hard it was to sit idle at seventeen while his friends went to fight.

Moira had written him- not a long letter, but strange. The boy’s name had been Magnus Eisenhardt, but Moira wrote as if Charles should know him and had sent the query to her for another purpose. “He has been devoted to your service ever since he had been a boy and was honoured by your recognition. His loyalty to you even fighting under my banner had been unwavering and unquestionable.”

Charles knew no one by the name of Magnus, but no matter. He would note it when the soldiers return. He had given up wishing that all of them would be well, but he could still hope for mercy.

-=-=

Frost’s armor was the color of white silver, so etched and polished that from a distance, she appeared a figure glittering like a diamond. Beneath her helmet, her mouth was a grim line. Logan was nowhere to be seen.  

“What happened?” Charles asked, reining in the Professor. His horse felt uncharacteristically difficult, as if ready to bolt down the hill at any moment. Perhaps he was even now here the trumpets call to charge.

“MacTaggert’s banners,” Logan shouted, coming in at a tear, “Marko’s men are crossing the river. “ He galloped off again to ready his own troops.

“And-?” The colors on the horizon were deepening, rendering the sunlight watery.

“It’s going to rain, I think,” Frost said mildly. “Janos tells me he could tell by the clouds that there’s a storm coming. Winter comes suddenly in these parts. I’m inclined to believe him. He grew up around here. The temperature has already cooled.” Suddenly she reached out and grabbed Charles’ rein and leaned close. “Do not join the battle, your majesty, on any account. Westchester cannot afford to lose you.”

“I know my role,” Charles said, but grew uneasy. It seemed as if Frost was concealing something from him. Her family was closely allied with his. He would’ve married her if she was less inclined to war—and one must always stay behind— or if he was not in love with her brother at the time. Christian had died fighting beside him. Perhaps she resent-

Paranoia was the first sign of madness. There was nothing to do but wait.

Eventually, he saw Scott coming up the hill. He had messages from Summers and the frontlines. He delivered them to Frost.

Her eyes scanned the lines. She appeared calm and quietly whispered further orders for Janos to take.

“Give it to me,” said Charles.

“Remember who you are,” Frost said, passing the crumpled papers over.

Cain Marko himself emerged had led a sortie-  Charles skimmed the rest. He spurred his horse before finishing the message.

Erik had been taken.

Ignoring Frost shouting, he rode faster down the steep incline.  He heard cursing, but Logan was already rallying the cavalry guards behind him.

-=-=

Charles could see the white smoke burning from a distance. The air was blood and gunpowder. Carts with wounded men passed him.

Azazel’s armor, blood red, was easy enough to distinguish. “Is Erik alive?”

“Yes,” he answered, looking up surprised and bowed. Behind him, Charles saw Magneto, its own armor bloodied. Mortimer was splinting a forefoot. “He thought capturing Erik would scatter us, but we follow the plan, and his orders.” And yet, Azazel looked pained.

Westchester was holding the day, Marko and Stryker were hemmed in, but they have Erik, and Cain Marko did not came by his reputation for cruelty for nothing. If he thought Erik was valuable, he would hurt him. If he thought Erik meant nothing, he would kill him.

“We’re going to get Erik back,” Charles said, wheeling his horse away. “They have nowhere to run. Send word that neither he nor his soldiers was to harm Erik.”

“Soldiers,” Logan scoffed. Savageland owned its name to its inhabitants: murderers, vagabonds, desperate men, criminals. Men escaped into the law from Savageland into Marko’s influence. Night was falling, however, and he ordered the line to be reformed and the watches assigned.

Charles went to meet with Summers. He saw Scott there, who delivered him a letter from Raven, answering his message from a few days ago.

He didn’t have time to open the seal until a few hours later, smiling as he read the salutations. Raven’s hand only seemed neat after a day of reading hurried scrawls. His smile soon disappeared. She had written: “I support presentation of Erik Lehnsherr at court, though I wonder at the timing when you’ve thought nothing about your little ward who addressed you as “Your Most Worshipful Majesty” for years. Irene informs me that protocol says you’ve to claim him as Magnus Eisenhardt, his birthname as well, and not only his adopted name. Did you finally-”

Charles finished and folded the message and tucked it into his belt and woke up Scott, “Inform General Frost, I am ordering a meeting with Marko. Tell Marko, tell him- We will give them an hour and he could choose the place and that he must bring Erik, unhurt,”

-=-=


	4. Chapter 4

They had lit so many torches the night appeared as day. The bodies had been cleared away from the embankments; the rivers had risen, but the mud, the blood, and the other debris of war still littered the stone bridge.

At first he only saw Cain’s silhouette, on foot, but recognizable.  He was twice as broad and half again as tall as the nearest man. The Juggernaut was even larger than in Charles remembered. A few dozen men stood with Cain; the last, perhaps. Stryker had yet to be found. Frost and Summers were convinced that he would be planning ambushes throughout the night.

The Juggernaut raised his hand. Charles heard retching behind him as Marko’s men staked torches on the ground raised their gruesome banners: the bodies were headless, handless, the legs cut off at the knees, the limbs and torso spiked through with wood to make for the lack as if they were so much strawmen.

“Where is Sir Erik?” Charles kept his voice steady.

“Who may you be? Where’s the Ice Lady?”

Charles rode in front of the line, the torches heating his face briefly as he passed them, though he kept beyond the range of Marko’s bowmen. “General Frost is conducting the war. I am Lord Francis of Darkholme, charged with the safety of this army.”

“Well, you have done a brilliant job so far, Lord Francis.”

Charles ignored the jab. He called out. “By the order of the King, I carry the seal of Westchester. Show me Sir Erik, unharmed, or this is the end for you and your men, Marko.”

Cain laughed, a sound that resembled less human than animal, the shriek of hyena and the cry of a wolf at once. There was a commotion among his men before a figure was led by the ropes of his neck and kicked to kneel at Marko’s feet.

Erik had been stripped of his armor and most of his clothes. His hands were tied in front of him. Marko unsheathed his blade and placed it next to Erik’s neck. Another man brought the torch close. Even from the distance, Charles could see him flinch as Cain made him call out his own name then struck and gagged him when he attempted to say more.  

Charles let out a breath. These were indeed the last of Marko’s men. 

 “Release him,” Charles ordered. “His majesty will preserve him. Send him over.”

“What do I get?” Cain asked. “My life? I’m not stupid. If I send him over I will have nothing. Get Xavier here then perhaps we will talk. How much does this knight mean to him? Is this Erik another high lord’s son? The king’s lover? Perhaps both. What will Charles the Gentle do if I gauge out his eyes before I return him to His Majesty?”

Charles inhaled deeply before speaking, burying the rage so it would not leak to his voice. “I am offering you myself as your hostage.” Charles heard a horse coming close behind him.

“Indeed,” Cain sneered. “And will you come with your seal of Westchester, milord? And all for a country knight- is he your lover or the king’s? What guarantee do I have?”

Charles took off his helmet first, then his gauntlets, dismounted, and dropped both before working on his vambraces.

“What are you doing?” Scott whispered. “You can’t, you are-“

“Get my armor off, Scott.” Charles said, his hands shaking too badly to unbuckle himself. “Do you think me more stupid than Cain? Tell everyone to stay back.” Without another word, Scott did as he was told.

“I am unarmed and within range of your archers,” Charles called out once he was free from armor and mail. “If you kill me, which you can, you will have nothing but two corpses and the wrath of Westchester and a slow death. The Queen is far less gentle than the King.” He held out his arms and walked toward the opposite end of the bridge. “But if you send him over and I’m your hostage, you have the advantage of the entire army? How indeed, can a knight compare to a lord? I would trade myself, but do you think General Frost will trade a victory for a single country knight, such as you say?”

“And I’m to believe that you’ll give me what I want?”

“I suspect, Juggernaut, that you know what I do not give you can take, as long as I’m alive in your keeping.”

 Lack of sleep always addled the brain and Marko had less brain than most to spend, especially without Stryker to advise him. Once Charles stopped walking, Erik was prodded to stand and thrown forward.

A light drizzle began.

Charles had no faith that Marko would keep his word once he entered the range of their bowmen. Charles and Erik passed each other on the bridge. Erik looked bruised, his face darkened by mud and blood. The shadows obscured his eyes, but he was angry. Angry and alive.

“Run,” Charles mouthed. Erik started running, just as Marko’s arm reached back and threw a spear. Charles heard a cry and his felt his heart in his throat. He knew he should not take his gaze off Cain, but he heard back and turned around and saw Erik had fallen, but Scott and the soldiers collecting him. He could not tell if the spear hit its mark.

It was too late to turn back now, for Marko advanced as his men circled around him. It was beginning to rain harder, dousing the torches. “You,“ Marko said, coming closer and recognizing him.

Charles grinned. “Yes, me.”

“Well,  Charles Francis Xavier himself. The rumors are true then. Poor little queen.” Cain began laughing. “This is a fine pri-“

He didn’t finish the word, for Charles had ducked, drew a dagger out of Marko’s belt and stabbed him once below the armpit then using Marko’s body to shield himself from the blows coming in, again in the eyes.

Charles felt heavy arms clamped down around him in the body’s death throes, the weight bearing him towards the earth. Shouting began. His soldiers were crossing the bridge. With an effort, Charles kicked off Cain’s body and picked up his sword from his nerveless hand with one blow severed the head.

He reached down and grabbed held it up by the hair.

“Cain Marko is dead,” he shouted, raising his voice above the chaos. “If you kill me, my army will kill you all. If I live, you live, for I can grant you pardon from your crimes.

“What Marko promised you I will give to you. He has promised you lands and homes. By the authority of the King of Westchester, will give you Savageland for your own, in perpetuity for your descendents as long a you abide by the laws of Westchester and swear fealty to my rule.

Drop your weapons if you want your lives.”

He saw their fear. They knew they had lost. How many of them had hoped for riches under Marko’s rule, how many again were merely drawn into his influence because they had nowhere else to go. There had been enough death.

One by one, they dropped their weapons. It seemed suddenly quiet except for the drumming of the rain.  Westchester’s soldiers had moved across the bridge. Charles made them stand aside, dropped Cain’s head. No one picked it up.

Scott was staring at him as if he were a ghost. The rain was strangely warm in Genosha tonight. Charles touched the side of his face. It was raining pitch, he thought, looking at the black on his fingers, then realized he was bleeding.

Lightening crashed behind him before he lost consciousness.

-=-=

He was burning in a river of fire. Briefly, he saw Scott’s face, then Frost’s, looking for once anxious. She looked frightening like her brother.

“Just a graze,” he thought he said. “Not even going to scar.”                              

He was having a fever. These things happen in war: accidents, sicknesses, injuries, deaths…

Quick, Charles weapons masters had told him. He didn’t have the advantage of reach, but he could swift. He was quicker than Cain, disarming him with a flick of the wrist and a laugh. A man had a crossbow had his finger on the trigger and Charles was quick. The blade went in silver and came out red.

Moira was suddenly by his side. “What have you done, Charles?” There was a crowd around him, a murmuring. It was very cold, for a summer. He felt dizzy.

There was a tug by his side. He looked down. Erik; no, just a boy, bleeding in his rags, but looking at him without fear while clinging to his hand. Charles could still save him, save his life,  keep those sea-glass eyes open to enjoy wine and chess and surely Charles had promised that he could go live in a castle and never suffer violence or be afraid or alone again.

“I saved him,” he said, looking down again, smiling, but Erik was gone and everyone else was gone. He stood in a graveyard, surrounded by a circle of swords that grew into knights, their armors dented, splattered with mud and blood.

They came at him, one by one, and he would fight forever, because he must. Beyond the ringing of steel, he could see just his home, where everyone waited for him.

-=-=

Charles woke up looking at a blue-face.

“Awake at last.” The blue-face had Raven’s voice, Raven’s features. “The blue is Irene’s idea, so we are not recognized. We are mimers for a day. It’s actually more pleasant than I thought at first. I might start a new fashion.”

“Where are we?” He was propped up in a bed and they were moving. He could hear birds.

“In the middle of the Blackbird forest, heading home” The Blackbird forest was closer to the capital than Genosha. They must’ve already been two days on the road.

“Why are we here? Where’s Erik?” His voice was hoarse and was handed a flask of water.

 “Because the king cannot be treated for poison in the middle of a war when there is no ready antidote and a lot of traitors about. Also, because Irene insisted on going hunting for some rare kind of flower and insisted on inviting Hank along. Just as we set camp, this lovely red knight riding at us. Sir Azazel, who brought us a message. He’s a great admirer’s of Irene’s. He had just the voice for poetry, too.  His family breed coursers.”

“I feel like your attention has strayed, Raven.”

“Hank was there to wait on you. It is just a graze, Charles. Four stitches and it’s not even going to scar. You weren’t dealt a mortal blow.” But the rims of Raven’s eyes were red, perhaps redder despite her face. She took his hand and held it tightly. “You are suppose to be ill anyways. There were prayers given for your health.”

“Yes, I know,” Charles said and kissed the back of her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

Raven smiled. “I think pardoning the criminals are a terrible idea, by the way. Westchester has three hundred and sixty-seven prisoners from Savageland, not including all those of Marko’s men who saw you faint. I’m surprised that Logan and Scott managed to stop our soldiers from killing them all, pardon or not. I issued a warrant for Stryker’s arrest for Azazel to take back, and that your promises would only be in effect for the rest of the prisoners once he is dead.”

“That is not very kind,” Charles said, thinking now that it was likely that Marko’s men and whoever remained with Stryker would now be trying to kill each other even if they were all sent back to the Savageland. He sighed. Raven would have her way.

“And Erik?” He prompted, fearing the worst. If Hank had treated him, surely he could’ve treated Erik as well, if Cain’s aim had been true. It couldn’t be. It had been dark and Erik would know how to-

“Sir Erik Lehnsherr is alive and probably back on duty by now,” Raven answered, but then even beneath the bluepaint of her face, he saw her frown. “Charles, did you save him because he is your ward or for some other reason? I was puzzling over your letter. It almost sounded as if you were-”

“Should I not have saved him?” Charles asked, relieved. Erik was alive.

“You didn’t need to trade yourself for him.”

“I needed him back, Raven,” Charles said. “I want him by my side.”

-=-=

The Castle Graymalkin in Westchester  was set atop of a hill in the capital. The apartments for the king was richly if sparsely finished since Charles had never taken up residence there long. He didn’t remember the last time he had been in his room for a consecutive fortnight. However, according to McCoy, there was still poison inside his system and he must rest.

Charles, for once, was inclined to listen. From his room, he could hear the bells pealing the victory. Raven was giving him daily updates of the prisoner’s show of good faith and Westchester’s recovery of the mines in Savageland. It was as if Charles could breathe for the first time since he became king and the fact that he still could not walk across his room unassisted, though frustrating, seemed a minor detail. Furthermore, Henry assured him that weakness and malaise Charles was feeling would go away provided that he rested.

The official victory celebrations were being prepared to take place in a month’s time. Charles, unused to civil affairs, was asked politely to stay out of the way by Raven’s retainers and administrators. As peace continued, his correspondence from the front was becoming scarce. On the third day after he learnt of the capture of William Stryker, Charles went to the library and found Irene there speaking with Azazel. The sight of him reminded Charles painfully of Erik, whom Charles knew nothing beyond that he was safe. All his letters to Erik remain unfinished. Lord Francis of Darkholme could profess love to Erik, even seemingly to sacrifice himself for his lover, but as a king, worse, the king whom he admired but who lied to him, the same confession prove unwelcome.

Azazel bowed and informed him that the soldiers were going home. He did not mention any message from Erik and Charles felt it would be foolish him to ask. Even though, he lingered in the library long after Azazel took his leave.

“How are you?” Charles asked Irene eventually. He couldn’t concentrate on the book he was reading, some tome on the history of waterways.

Irene cast him an indecipherable look before going to the shelves, indicating for Charles to follow. She had been adopted by the previous archivist and had grown up in the vast library of Westchester, becoming archivist herself. Blindness had not prevented her from knowing the location of every folio or book in the vast complex. She presented Charles with a thick leather folder, stamped with the seal of Xavier’s private archives.

“Raven mentioned you would be bored if there’s peace,” she said.

Charles was going to protest but he had already opened the folder to see letters stamped with MacTaggerts’ seal. Erik’s, he realized, the childish scrawl surprisingly well-aligned on the page.

_To His Highness Prince Charles Francis,_

_Lady Moira said that I must learn to write letters but as I have no one to write to I am writing to you to thank you again for saving me from Shaw and his wickedness and tell you she said I can learn to use a sword if I am good so I will be very good. Lord Sean said he has the best messenger pigeons in the land so since it is Thursday today I hope your Saturday is well_

_Magnus Eisenhardt_

_  
_There had been others that Charles remembered reading while on campaign They had caught up with him, all at once, somehow inserted with all the other letters from the castle becoming part of a welcome respite after a day of orders and army. He didn't know that his squire had packed them away. But soon after, kingship had taken all precedence.

 

_Your Most Worshipful Majesty,_

_You have not written back but Lady Moira said that it is Courteous to reply to letters. I have asked whether if Prince can be uncourteous because I hear there are different rules for royalty, but Lord Sean said it is because you are now the king and kings have a lot of letters to answer, so I know that my letter may be late._

_Lady Moira has a guest today. She called her Eddie in private, but I am to call her Lady Lehnsherr. She appears to be a very nice lady but very sad. Lady Moira said because she is in mourning, her son died fighting the Measles who killed other children as well. Measles seems to be very faraway as it is not in any of the maps in the library that I can read. I would attach the maps as I hear you are a great warrior and I think you should vanquish such terrible Foe if you know where they are but I am only allowed to use the normal post which does not carry too much weight and my tutor tells me that Graymalkin has the best library in the kingdom._

_Magnus Eisenhardt_

 

There were more letters by Magnus, none of which Charles replied though he remembered reading them; Magnus had continued, evidently happy with his one-sided correspondence. Either Sean had told him or he had decided himself that silence was tacit permission.

 

Y _our Most Worshipful Majesty,_

_Lady Lehnsherr says she wants to ~~adapt~~ adopt me . Moira said that it is difficult because I am the King’s Ward so she will write to you for your Intentions. I hope that you let Lady Lehnsherr adopt me. She is very generous giving me candied fruits and always looks happy to see me. Lady Moira is nice, too, but I think she can look rather Stern, especially after the new baby and she thinks I can be too loud and has impossible questions. Lord Sean is nicer, but he is either with the baby or out hunting._

_Lady Lehnsherr also says if she adopts me I can be a squire and if I am diligent and then I can become a knight. I want to be a knight so please let her adopt me. She will give me new name as well. I have--_

_Your Most Worshipful Majesty,_

_Felicitations and congratulations on your marriage. I went to the capital today and to see your wedding. It was a very long wedding. I am sorry I fell asleep but I hope you have a baby soon. They seem to make people quite happy and I wish you happiness Very Sincerely as you didn’t smile today and I remember your smile with fondness._

_I also want to say that the People think your eyes are very beautiful. I am composing an ode for them because a knight must learn to compose. I have compared it to the sky and to the sea and to being warm because they’re beautiful like your eyes._

_Furthermore, I am now called Erik Lehnsherr by everyone in the castle because I am now a ~~a~~ opted. I picked the first name out of a tree that Lord Jacob showed me who says I should call father. I am very glad to have another though I shall not forget the first._

_Your devoted servant,_

_Erik Lehnsherr  (Magnus Einsenhardt)_

 

Charles didn’t remember the audience with Moira. He wondered whether it occurred during the whole wedding fiasco. He said and did quite a number of things he later had to amend in the three days before he hurried to the battlefields, leaving Raven as Queen-Regent, as had always been the plan. He was glad that he had granted young Erik, or Magnus as he had been then, a measure happiness, even more pleased that the letters improved in style and neatness over the years.

_Your Most Worshipful Majesty,_

_The soldiers and the knights of the castle had a great feast last night where they called you Charles the Gentle, which I think very strange, but perhaps there is another meaning to the word I have not yet learned, for I think of you as very fierce in the tales the bards told us of your victories and in my memory._

_I wanted to go with my father to the war you are fighting, but I am squiring for Sir Azazel, who is a brilliant fighter though he is still wrapped up in bandages from a Fire. He also expresses Concerns with my understanding of meter and metaphor when I shewed him some of my poetry. As I am being measured for my first suit of armor in the morning I have nothing else to complain._

_I do not mind that you never reply as I know now that there are wars and wars involve as many words as swords, or so Lady Lehnsherr said when I asked whether you are going to fight in the war. If you are, please I want you to bring milord father (Jacob Lehnsherr) back safe, please, as he is going with Lord Sean with our soldiers. I watched them march out today and I can still hear the ringing of the horsebells in my ears. He is the only father I have left and you have been so good to me._

_Your devoted servant,_

_Erik Lehnsherr_

_Most High and Mighty Sovereign of Westchester and Darkholme,_

_I want to thank your Highness for the safety of my father who returned when we were beyond all hope. I will not belabor the cost of the war because that you know already, as after the last few years I have now more understanding of warfare. I heard you were injured in the latest sally and had fallen from your horse. Our household pray for your recovery and I especially as you have answered me by bringing him back._

_Also I would like to offer my sincere apologies for all my Wrongful addresses in my previous letters. Please forgive my former childishness as I attempted only to relay my feelings with whatever little learning at my disposal. I am desirous of more as I have become increasingly certain that knighthood is the correct course of life for me and that no knight could hope to serve you without understanding of tactics and stratagems and I now vow that I would exert myself to the excellence required in our service-_

 

Erik had continued to write, undisturbed by Charles’ lack of correspondence. And yet, since Charles had read some and possessed the collection entirely, the royal secretary had deemed them important enough to archive.

_Most High and Mighty Sovereign of Westchester and Darkholme,_

_I hope the letter finds your Highness in good health. I would not both your Highness with such trivialities except I do not wish you to have the wrong impression should certain Words be relayed to your Highness’ ears._

_At the tournament the MacTaggerts held Sir Christian Frost has come to see my lord father. He sparred a little with me afterwards and inquired to my training. He says it is strange that you never mention me though he learned that I am nominally your ward. I did not know how to answer him, but only say that that you saved me from Shaw when I was eleven years of age and that I am the son of milady mother and milord father Lehnsherr by your leave. He asked me how old I was and was surprised to hear that I was so old. He then said that you must regard me tenderly as you have neither son nor daughter of your own._

_I told him that you have yet to answer any of my letters, which I understand of Your Majesty, though I’ve kept in practice to write to you throughout the years. I mentioned it not as a complaint, but only to show him that my memory and regard for you have never grown less no matter what rumors that come even this far to besmirch your Highness’ name name. However, Sir Christian said that he would remind you to give a reply before I grow out of my admiration for you…_

 

Charles recalled, with a start, that Christian had indeed mentioned something of the sort regarding his ward and his marriage to Raven, but they could meet only briefly then and Charles never liked to think of the court when he was afield, and especially when Christian had been there. Charles had met the Frosts, Christian and Emma both on his second campaign to quell an uprising led by Stryker. If Emma’s beauty was now a diamond, cool adamantine at every facet, Christian’s beauty had burned. Even now, Charles could remember the flash of heat he had felt when he first saw him. And so they had met thereafter, always on the battlefield. And at court, fearing gossip, they had pretended that their camaraderie was never more than between a king and his subject. If a king could have enemies, a favorite faced even more dangers.

And yet, they had been so young. Raven had found Irene; Charles found warlike Christian. Westchester fought Savageland. It had seemed love and glory would never end. And every year, young men and women joined the ranks of Westchester soldiery hoping for the same.

There were fewer letters as the years passed, but Charles was glad that most of which Erik had chosen to write had been happy occasions in his life, then he reached the last, it had taken place soon after Erik had written excitedly of going off to battle at last-

_To the Most High and Mighty Sovereign of Westchester and Darkholme and My Royal Benefactor,_

_I have the joy to ask for your Highness’ solemn blessing, as I have the honour to inform you that I am betrothed to Magda Wundagore, whom has inspired the tenderest feelings in me…_

Charles finished reading the letter slowly. There were no more letters afterwards. He looked at the dates again. Charles let out a long breath. His hands shook as he closed the folder then closed his eyes. Erik was seventeen when he had asked for Charles’ blessing. Thirteen years ago.

It should not be strange. People took lovers on the eve of battles, during long campaigns, because it was comforting to have a companion-in-arms when the nights and days grew uncertain. And then…what was it that Frost said? In the world’s eyes, even Charles had a wife for the capital.

Charles steeled himself on the day of the victory celebration. He was not surprised when Erik did not make an appearance.

-=-=


	5. Chapter 5

There were still garlands on the gates, and victory wreaths hanging on doorways. And everywhere, the scent of crushed roses lingered. It had been much the same the last time Erik had been in the capital. He had been clinging tightly to his new mother’s hand inside their sedan as they made their way to the palace for the wedding for the King of Westchester. Charles. Francis.

“Milord,”  Erik remembered with a sudden shudder-- the memory of looking up at eyes darkened by lust, that tip of a tongue licking the red mouth still wet from Erik’s tongue at the word-- suddenly as fresh as if it were yesterday.

“Papa?”

Erik blinked and shook stirred himself out of his memory to look beside him at his daughter. Lorna was tall for a girl of twelve, but he hadn’t liked the thought of her becoming lost in the crowd, so she was riding on Magneto while Erik had a horse from the inn. The sight of a girl on a giant warhorse had garnered them some stares, but the people, fresh from the victory parade and its usual goodwill toward soldiery, had decided to stick flowers in Magneto’s mane and gave the wreaths to Lorna. She looked like beautiful.

“Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” Erik said, hoping that she thought he was blushing due to the heat. “I was just thinking that Sir Azazel would be happy to see you riding so well.” She beamed.

Coming up by barge had been slower than he had expected. In truth, he had hoped the delay had been long enough that he would be calm enough to treat the trip as how his mother had presented to Lorna. A presentation at high-court- an honour for her father, for their family, and shouldn’t she like to see the capital and the king and the queen?

Erik had missed celebration at the capital on purpose. He didn’t, he supposed, really wanted to see Francis or Charles, given how they parted. Given what passed between them. Given how they had met.

It should be flattering to think that the king whom he had admired all his life had professed a love for him. Indeed, what more proof could he ask for when the king himself put himself in jeopardy for his life.  Except his Highness was married. Except his Highness had lied to him.

Erik was a practical man. He knew his histories. He could not fault the deception, at least, not until Lord Francis nearly ordered him to stay behind. Erik would have without question, if the king had revealed himself. And now, what was he suppose to do? His Majesty had Queen Raven the Just. Erik was going to face them both in Graymalkin as he was to be presented to the high-court, just as had been once promised. But what about after? It was not treason to sleep with the king. But was it treason for Charles to fall in love with him and endanger himself when Erik himself did not yet know what he felt, how he should feel toward Lord Francis, his king and benefactor-

They arrived in front of a large house in a fashionable part of town. Azazel had met the long-admired Lady Irene in the days when Erik had still been insensible. The Juggernaut’s spear had missed, but there were enough poison from the wounds Erik sustained during his capture that recovery had been slow and difficult. Frost granted him leave to go home and did not require him to return for review before the march toward the capital.

He received the letters. Azazel was getting on with Lady Irene. He bought a house and was beginning to think of spending his winters in the capital. The happiness Erik read between the lines made him wish all the best for his friend and comrade. The invitation to visit coincided with the summons to high-court which came in gilded lettering and stamped with Westchester’s seal and the one more seldom seen, the dynastic seal of the Xaviers.

Azazel’s house was handsome. He was at the steps when Erik rode in. He praised Lorna’s form before helping her dismount, whirling her around so that Lorna shrieked in laughter. Then he presented Lady Irene Adler, to whom Lorna did a creditable courtesy.

“We have been looking forward to your coming, Sir Erik,” Irene said. “Us, and many others who wished to see the commander who made the victory over Savageland possible. We were sorry that you missed the celebration at the capital.”

“I apologise for my absence, but the victory belongs to everyone who was there and all those who had supported us at home.”

“Indeed,” Irene said, smiling gently. “But there’s no blame. And if there is disappointment, you still must do right by your daughter. The campaign had been a long one and the war longer. Children do not grow up at our convenience.”

There were further pleasantries before they were led inside. After they were bathed and changed, dinner was served. Lorna nearly fell asleep at dessert, so Erik went to put her to bed before returning. Irene was already gone, but Azazel was reading a book by the fire.

“You have met your poetess and set up house with her.” Erik laughed. He settled into the chair opposite and said, “Surely this is beyond your wildest dreams.”

“It is never what I imagined, certainly,” Azazel said. “That my age and my face could still bring me such joy.”

Erik had learned better than to follow the thought. The scars on Azazel’s face had been gruesome during the healing, fearsome when they healed. They were not beautiful, but Azazel had taught Erik to ride and to fight so Erik had never considered that Azazel himself thought them a barrier to his own happiness. Erik toasted Azazel and sincerely wished his joy to endure.

“And now peace has come and we talk about happiness, I have three riddles for you,” said Azazel after he took another drink. “Who wants to see you most in this city? Who dreads seeing you? And who will you see tomorrow?”

Erik scowled. “Azazel, you’re not stranger to what is comfort on the battlefield.”

“But I also know that he was your boyhood hero,” Azazel said, “and that you are far away from your childhood.”

The “he” could not be named. Azazel knew, of course. The entire army had known by the time Erik was strong enough to leave the infirmary and resume his duties. Sir Erik’s friend, Lord Francis had been no one less than the king himself. And the king himself had willingly exchanged himself as hostage for Erik.

The story had been embellished in the telling. All of Erik’s reputation could not stand against a narrative that painted himself as swooning into King Charles’ arms while His Majesty delivered a mortal blow to the Juggernaut, becoming wounded in the fight.

Frost and Logan were sympathetic. At his suggestion, he was sent to hunt down Stryker who had surrendered and his men before disappearing into the mountains, possibly trying to make his way to Shi’ar and sell his services there. Erik, with a few chosen men, managed to recover his reputation by finding and killing him. Then his strength gave out and he went home to Lorna.

“I loved him,” Erik said to Azazel. “A boy’s love for his rescuer and benefactor. Furthermore,” he added, “the king is married, so I do not see how referencing what had been could lead to anything other than awkwardness at best and treason at worst. It is best for His Majesty, I think, that we never speak of it again.”

“Unless he speaks of it.” Azazel seemed sure.

“I do what my king requires,” Erik said, remembering that for almost his entire life, he had dreamed of serving the king and he had served him as a knight of the realm as faithfully as he could. Yet the thought had now a note of bitterness, for Erik had served the king, even, unwittingly, as his lover and His Worshipful Majesty had not remembered young Magnus Eisenhardt at all.  

-=-=

Charles could not pretend ignorance at his presentation. Erik heard his full name for the first time echoing in the halls of Graymalkin, appended to his title also his status as the King’s Ward, which was apparently of consequence at court. He also presented Lorna to their majesties. And even as the queen smiled to greet them both, the coolness in Charles’ expression unsettled Erik.

It was the custom for those presented have a private audience with both, to discuss their duties, but the queen retired with Lady Irene after making sure that the tea was to his preference. Since Lorna was with Azazel, Erik was only to worry to himself. He was still thinking whether Lorna should prefer the life of the city or to go home to his holdings when he heard a light cough behind him. He turned, Charles stood in the doorway at the opposite end of the room, his heavy robes gone, his face shaved clean, he looked almost like another man. In fact, he looked like the prince who had killed Shaw and delivered Erik.  

 “I’m glad you have come,” Charles said, then, more quietly. “Though I had hoped you would come earlier.”

“We came by the waterways, Your Majesty,” Erik said. “Had I known that I was to be here more quickly, I would have-“

But Charles indicated him to stop. “Three days’ hard riding, a week by water, but you did everything right. It is only me, you see. I understand everything better now.” His manner was very formal, his words even. “I offer you my sincerest apologies for any inconvenience or trouble I have cost you with my behavior or words in the guise of another.”

“Your majesty needs to make no apologies for another’s words or deeds,” Erik said, startled.

Charles frowned. “The words and deeds are mine, no matter what name I gave you, none of it was false. I- I love you and would continue to love you even if you may not choose the same. I only wish I could’ve been truthful to who I am.” When Erik didn’t answer, he asked, “Would it have made a difference?”

Erik shook his head. “I cannot mind what has been devised for your majesty’s safety.  You know my regard for you.” Erik could take it no longer. “Yet you didn’t remember me at all.”

“You forgot what I looked like,” Charles said, wry. “Does a beard and twenty years make such a difference to my appearance?”

“I thought the king taller,” Erik returned.

“You were eleven the last time you saw me,” said Charles.  “Almost everyone seemed tall to you, and you were wrong, even had I known that you are the boy I met years ago, I still would not know who the man Erik Lehnsherr is just as you would’ve never known the king beyond his kingship.”

“I loved you for years,” Erik confessed. If they must speak of it, then he would. “Through my boyhood and adolescence I imagined how we should meet again. I thought I would see you at my first campaign and when I did not, I took comfort in the thought that I fought for you.”

“And I am very sorry for it,” Charles said. “I wish your life had never seen a battlefield or bloodshed because of me. That you had never been hurt or wounded. I wish I had returned at least one of your letters. Nevertheless, I will not be sorry that I met you and did not know that you’re my ward and did not remember you as a boy that clung to my hand.”

“You knew me for three days,” Erik whispered. “So am I really to be the King’s Catamite as you had threatened?” Erik asked. “Is that to be my new duty for the court?”

“You are whoever you want to be,” Charles said. “Your life is your own. I will not command it further. You have a daughter, a wife, a family. You are my ward and for now, my heir even as Lorna is yours for I have none who could replace you. Your duties are that of a prince of the realm. You could bring Lady Magda to court and I promise to accord her every courtesy.”

Erik, taken aback, could only stare at Charles. “I have no wife,” he finally said.

“Your letter asked for my blessings,” Charles said. “I hope my secretary had given them.”

“She did,” Erik answered, “but Magda’s first love was the sea. We were very young. Her affection for me lasted only slightly longer than the campaign. She gave me Lorna before she sailed with her people.”

“So you could love me?” The _hope_ in Charles’ eyes was almost unbearable.

“I have loved you before I know what it is,” Erik said, “but you have a wife, the Queen Raven-“

Charles approached. “I love Raven as a sister and she loves me as a brother. Her apartments are in the other wing.”

Erik looked around and finally realized that he must be standing in the anteroom. The door through which Charles had come was still open.

“You brought me to your bedroom,” Erik said. He had known Lord Francis for three days. Three days and four nights, each one of them carved into his memory. The silk Charles was wearing were very thin and hinted at the body beneath.

“The threshold,” Charles answered, eyes brilliantly blue. “I would have you meet me in my room if protocol had allowed it, if I could be more certain of your feelings toward me. I took a risk, thinking that the association would be pleasant.”

The king who fought in the vanguard with his armies, the king who gambled his own life and killed Juggernaut, and he thought bringing Erik to the entrance of his bedroom was a risk when Erik had sworn to his life to Charles’ and would’ve been content to love him afar all his days, even before he knew the particular pleasure of sharing his bed.

“I do not desire to be king,” Erik said.

 “You’ll be Prince and Protector of the Realm, but my heir only for a while,” Charles said, walking closer. He brought up his hand to cup Erik’s face, his thumb stroked his jaw. “Raven is with child.”

“But-“

“Erik,” Charles said, leaning close, “the child is not mine by blood but the queen is my sister in my affections, her child I can raise as my own. And if my line should fail, the kingship will go to yours without protest of the court and if I should die-”

Erik kissed him. Charles’ risks had their rewards. The bed was conveniently close and they were in a castle.

And there was no battle to ride into in the morning.

-=-=

“And after the War of Savageland was brought to an end, Westchester was at peace for many years. The King and Queen named Sir Erik Prince and Protector.” Lorna read. “Six months later,  Prince Kurt was born to Queen Raven and they all lived happily ever after.”

“Why does Kurt get named in the story?” Pietro complained. “He’s only the heir because he’s a year older.”

“I’m an hour older than you,” Wanda said. “I think it makes a world of sense that the older get named first.”

Lorna ignored her siblings’ bickering and continued with the next story she had written. Azazel thought she had a better grasp of grammar than his father at the same age.

-=-=


End file.
